“Hello?” Max jumped to his feet. “Fredo?” In an effort to get better cellphone coverage, he went directly to the front door, and out onto the steps of the terrace. “Fredo, can you hear me?”
The silence became gray noise, and then Godfredo’s voice came down the line. “Sorry, hermano, cellphone coverage isn’t so great in the middle of the ocean. We’re moored in the Pearl Islands, a few miles south of the Panama mainland. Did I mention how beautiful it is?!”
Max laughed.
“Look, I won’t take up all your time, I know you’re busy, but I wanted to ask if you’ d had chance to look at the files I sent through.”
“Of course I did! And I didn’t know your construction group had such an impressive profile these days. I didn’t realize you guys were the ones who saved the Hemmingsgate Bridge.”
“Yeah, the fucking Hemmingsgate! That was an animal of a job! We were almost done and fuck me if the river didn’t shift course overnight. You should’ve seen Dad’s face when he got the call.”
“He freaked?”
“My dad?! Never!” Godfredo’s tone was gleeful. “He looked like a matador facing off a mad bull. That river didn’t stand a chance!” He paused. “But about the email I sent you, Max, have you booked your flight yet?”
Max grinned and hugged his free arm to his chest against the chill evening air. “Believe me, Fredo, if I could see a way to do it … It’d be a very different story if the timing wasn’t so bad.”
“Whoa, it sounds like a woman is squeezing your balls!”
Max laughed. “I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that. But yes, it is to do with my fiancée.”
There was a short pause. “So what’s she like?”
“Sarah? She’s great. She runs a lifestyle magazine here in London.” Max ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve been together for nearly eight years, now.”
“Holy cow! Eight years!”
“Yes. I’m starting the new job with her father’s business at the end of the month. He’s been very good to me over the years.” Max paused. “I guess it’s time to take that next step.”
“Dude! That’s a great way to be buried alive at a very young age!”
“Well, at least I’ll be buried on solid ground.”
Max turned to see Sarah’s car pull up, out front of the house. He waved, and watched as she walked around the car and pulled a carry bag from the passenger side. He knew it would contain her favorite Thai soup: bean curd laksa, her Thursday night treat.
He turned away.
“I really appreciate you thinking of me, Fredo,” he said. “I can’t go to Panama myself. But I’ll make some calls tomorrow and connect you with the head of the department, it’s the least I can do.”
“Thanks, hermano.” There was a pause. “Shame. It would have been great to see the dream team on track again. So please send me some CVs, and make sure you tell them we will take care of the tender submission process and financials.”
Max nodded. “Will do.”
As he ended the call, Sarah reached the doorstep. He took the bag from her and opened the door. She offered her cheek, and he kissed it.
“Who was that?” she asked. She handed her coat to him.
“Godfredo. My old friend from school.”
She kicked off her heels and took the bag of food once more. “Would you get some wine glasses, please, Max?”
“Of course.” Max headed toward the sideboard and opened the cupboard door. He took a couple of glasses, and two linen napkins that were rolled inside silver serviette rings.
His phone buzzed.
He placed the glasses on the sideboard and flipped open the phone. It was a message from Godfredo: a photo taken from offshore—presumably from the yacht—of a pristine beach with a palm tree, in full, tropical sunlight.
Max snapped his phone closed and picked up the glasses. As he entered the dining room, Sarah looked up.
“So what did Godfredo want from you?”
Chapter Seven
London, England
Max sat in the car and stared at the bleak, concrete façades of the housing estate that had become his home at the age of sixteen. He’d driven over an hour to get there.
He gripped the steering wheel, as though forcing himself to turn it: to drive back across town to the safety and comfort of white terrace houses and tree-lined streets. Back to Sarah.
And yet.
He thumped the steering wheel.
Putting up the hood of his jacket, he stepped out of the warmth and strode across the denuded playground toward the closest building. The tree in the courtyard bore scars, and graffiti was etched into its trunk.
Max didn’t bother locking the car; anyone who wanted to break in would do it, regardless. He’d done it himself once or twice, many years ago—broken into cars—although only under threat of physical injury from the local skinheads. Plus, he’d always made sure he wrote an apology note and placed it in the vehicle once they were well gone.
Those were the same skinheads who—less than a week after he moved onto the estate—had taken his father’s golf iron out of his hands and wrapped it around a lamppost.
Max knocked on the door of the first in the row of flats and was immediately greeted with, “Get inside, you!”
As he went in, he saw the familiar, hulking figure of his uncle Alan in the kitchenette. An aluminum saucepan sat on one of the two electric coil elements, and Alan was applying butter thickly, methodically, to the topmost slice of a pile of toast. He was wearing an apron.
Smiling, Max looked around the tiny flat. It was a dive: no two ways about it. Despite Alan’s best efforts, it smelled of abattoir—Alan’s place of work—although Max had grown used to it over the years.
It had been his safe haven. His home, after he lost everything.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, above the sound of the television.
Alan looked over his shoulder, and Max nodded toward the 2009 monthly calendar that was stuck to the door of the refrigerator. It was opened—prematurely—to the month of January, which featured a black-and-white, Hollywood movie still.
“Maltese Falcon,” Alan said. “Sit down, then.”
Max slung his jacket over the back of his usual armchair and sat down. It was always good to see his uncle.
Alan handed him a plate loaded with baked beans, bacon and toast, and Max took it gratefully; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.
Alan then furnished the makeshift coffee table with a fresh six-pack of beer and lowered himself into his own armchair. He settled his plate on his lap. “Could catch the overtime if we’re lucky,” he said. “Manchester and Spurs.” He squinted at the TV screen and picked up the remote. He switched channels. “Beer?”
Max held out a hand. Alan pulled two beers free from the pack and handed one to him.
“Al, you know I’ve signed with the Beauvoirs?”
“Mm-hm?” Alan’s mouth was now full. He chewed quickly and swallowed, his eyes still on the screen.
“And now I’ve been asked to be part of a different team on a really big project. A long way away from London.”
“Where would that be, then?”
“Panama. But I really don’t know what to do.”
“No! Get outta there!” Alan yelled at the player on the television screen. He lowered his fork, shook his head and shoveled beans into his mouth. He looked at Max. “Panama. That’s in the Pacific.”
“Pacific on one side, Atlantic on the other.”
Alan nodded. “You seen that movie: South Pacific?”
Max smiled and shook his head.
“A real old one, that is,” Alan said. “Starts out in black-and-white and then half way though: bam! Technicolor!” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Never seen anything like it.” For a moment, he seemed to have lost interest in the soccer game as he looked out the window.
He turned to Max. “I been saving for a cruise, did I tell you?”
/>
“No, you didn’t tell me.” Max grinned, taken aback. He couldn’t imagine how Alan could save any money on his minimum factory wages and he had never once accepted a penny from anyone. Even after Max had started working himself. “Put it away. You’ll need it someday,” he’d said.
Alan now took a swig from his beer can. “Been wanting to do a cruise since I saw Blue Hawaii,” he said.
“Then you should do it,” Max said, delighted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you anywhere except this room or the pub.” He paused. “Would you be alright … if I go to Panama?”
“Me? Gawd! Never you mind about me.” Alan eyed Max as he chewed on a rasher of bacon. After a moment, he hit ‘mute’ on the remote. “So what’s holding you back, lad?”
Max stopped chewing. “Sarah. And her father. I don’t know how I’d face him.”
Alan was quiet, his large fingers enveloping his beer can.
Max looked at him. “I don’t want to be the guy who screws up everyone else’s life because he can’t face up to his responsibilities.”
Immediately, Alan planted his beer on the arm rest.
“Lad, if you’re talking about your father …” He leaned forward. “You’d do well to remember that your mother was no angel, neither. God rest her.”
“What do you mean?”
Perhaps his expression belied his surprise at his uncle’s words, because Alan continued, hurriedly: “Oh, don’t get me wrong: I agree with you. It was bloody irresponsible. I could’ve spit chips when he topped himself with that ruddy helicopter.” Alan’s eyes were blazing. “He well knew what he was doin’. He knew it, and he took our Helen with him.” His fist clenched tighter around his beer. “She may’ve been ashamed of me; of where she come from. But she was still my sister!”
Max felt the familiar ache of sorrow surfacing as he saw the blotches of red on his uncle’s cheeks.
He looked at his beans and toast. He wasn’t hungry any more.
Alan drew a deep breath. “Well, I was ready to blame everyone, wasn’t I? Especially those rich folks your parents hobnobbed around with. Doing deals and buying up businesses, and what-have-you.” He shook his head. “But then I come home after my shift one mornin’ and I see you snoring your head off on the chair right there, and I think to myself, ‘Alan, that lad is the best thing to ever happen to your sorry carcass.’ So if you’re asking me about screwing up other people’s lives …?” Alan sat back in his chair. “Ain’t no such thing.”
Max knew better than to hug his uncle.
“Thanks,” he said, fighting back a grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
But Alan had already raised the volume on the television, nodding his silent acknowledgement.
Max stood. “Would you like some more toast?”
“Too right. I’ll have a couple more.” Alan mopped up the last of his dinner with his remaining half slice of toast. As he handed his plate to Max, he said, “I don’t know nothin’ about ladies and all that. I only know as long as you work the best you can, all the rest of it? It’s just …” He fumbled for words. “It’s just the rest of it.”
Max smiled. “Got it.” He took their plates to the kitchenette.
“And anyways,” Alan raised his voice over the television. “If it gets too stinkin’ hot for you over there, you’ve always got this place.”
Not for the first time, Max was aware that if you only needed one person to have your back and that one person was Alan, you were without a doubt the luckiest bastard alive.
Chapter Eight
London, England
As he stood on the doorstep of the Beauvoir residence, Max looked along the uniform curve of the street. It was beautiful, even enveloped as it was in dank mist. The trees stood, evenly trimmed and skeletal, punctuating the regularity of the black, iron fence that ran the length of the sidewalk. In the glow of the streetlamps, the whitewashed façades of the Kensington terraces were cast a strange amber.
He had stood here on his own only once before: when he’d asked Henry Beauvoir for Sarah’s hand in marriage. It had been Max’s choice to approach him—it hadn’t been a necessity—and Henry himself had found it amusing. But he’d also been impressed, Max could tell.
Thinking of Sarah, now, Max felt his heart sink. Their place had been dark when he arrived home earlier that evening. Sarah was no longer there, and he’d found a note: she was staying with a friend.
Bracing himself, Max pulled the old, iron knob and listened. Inside the Beauvoir residence, the doorbell chimed.
The door was opened, and Max was ushered in by the butler.
Shortly, Henry Beauvoir appeared. Even without a tie, Henry Beauvoir looked stately. This evening, he wore a crisp shirt, and his silver hair was combed back.
“Max.” Henry held out his hand. His gaze was direct.
The handshake was brief.
“I apologize that it’s so late,” Max said, as he removed his jacket.
“Please,” Henry said, ushering Max directly into the large front room. “Scotch?” He went ahead and poured, without waiting for a response.
Max took the glass he offered, but couldn’t drink. “I expect you know why I’m here,” he said. He turned the glass in his hand, unsure where to start. Henry Beauvoir was unsmiling.
“Regretfully, I cannot honor my contract with the Beauvoir Group.”
Henry was silent.
“I have an opportunity I never imagined I’d have in my lifetime,” Max continued. “And—”
Henry held up a hand. “You can stop there.”
Max obliged.
Henry placed his glass on the table beside him. “I won’t pretend I’m not greatly disappointed to hear this. I had hoped Sarah’s impression of the situation was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Max, I didn’t offer you this position in the Beauvoir Group as a favor. Or to ingratiate my daughter.”
“I understand—”
“I haven’t finished.” Henry’s voice boomed. “The fact is, you were far and away the best candidate we’d had in years. You are intelligent, and very talented.” He paused. “However, I’ve also had time to consider this, and it’s my view that anybody who embarks on a path without total commitment is not somebody with whom I wish to work. Nor entrust my business.”
Max nodded silently. He looked at the older man. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to hurt Sarah—”
“Enough!” Henry cut him off, his hand raised once more. “I understand and respect your reasons, Max. But beyond that—and I say this as a father—I don’t ever want to see your face again. You are free to go.” He paused, unsmiling. “Good night.”
Chapter Nine
Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, Panama
Karis Deen glanced out the window of the open plan office. She was alone. Across the courtyard, she could see the long, low building that had once been the old French hospital, but now comprised the Research Institute’s housing quarters, where she’d been living for the past few months.
A smile crept across her lips: Dalisha—her roommate—was standing in the center of the courtyard below, in animated conversation with a man who wore a beard and dreadlocks.
Karis leaned across and pushed open the window.
“Dalisha!” she called out. “You’re back already! How did it go?”
Dalisha looked up and waved. “I’m coming!”
Grinning, Karis sat back in her chair. It was the first day it hadn’t rained in months—finally, the start of the dry season—and the Institute’s gardens were swollen with lush foliage. Ripe mangoes lay in droves under massive, established trees, and vines hung heavily across building façades.
“You know what gets me? They really aren’t concerned about the environmental impact. It’s unbelievable.”
Karis looked up as Dalisha stalked into the office. She and the rest of the postdocs and academics in the department had been out all afternoon at a meeting hosted by the Panama Canal Aut
hority: the Panama Canal expansion project was making headlines in the scientific community, and the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute was to play a large advisory role moving forwards. From where Karis sat, it looked like it would be an interesting development for Panama and the world, but she’d opted not to attend. She had to prioritize her time.
“Productive meeting, then?” Karis asked, with a smile.
“I don’t know. I suppose so. It was a lot of talk.” Dalisha ripped her canvas courier bag up and over her head and shoulders and threw it onto the desk in the far corner. “To be fair, the Canal Authority’s presentation was comprehensive. They’ve done a lot of good work.”
“I sense a ‘but’ …?”
“You can bet they’re all funded by big-ass capitalist traders with one goal: to get the freaking canal expanded as fast and as big as possible. Never mind if it’s inconvenient for humans or nature.” Dalisha’s eyes blazed. “We have a duty to keep an eye on this one! Those guys think global warming is a hoax; we can’t let them rape the world over and over again!”
“Now there’s the Dalisha I know!” Karis laughed.
Dalisha kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the small sofa by the door. “You know, I’ve got half a mind to talk to the Director about starting some kind of think tank—”
Karis grinned. “Attagirl, Dalisha! You want me to have a word with them? They might take it from someone who knows about dinosaur teeth.”
Dalisha gave a short laugh, then sighed. “If it were only that simple.” With her socked feet, she pushed dirty mugs and random, photocopied papers to the side of the coffee table. She leaned back, running her hands over her tightly-woven, black hair. “It’s just depressing. We’ll have to start moving our equipment off the Mothership next year.”
“Off of Barro Colorado?” Karis frowned. “Why?”
Dalisha and her coworkers jokingly referred to the island of Barro Colorado as the Mothership, for all the unique bodies of long-term, ecological study that had been borne from its existence over the years. The island—once the tip of a mountain—stood in the flooded wetlands at the heart of the great waterway. It had become the Institute’s primary research station in 1923, due to its enforced isolation after the Americans dammed the Chagres River to form Gatún Lake.
The Expansion Page 4